The Keep of Fire (53 page)

It was a standing stone hewn of black rock, with four planed sides that tapered toward the top. The stone’s surface was worn and pitted, but he could still make out a few of the symbols carved upon it. They were not runes.

Waves of sick, suffocating power radiated from the stone, shimmering on the air, distorting it like the heat waves above a desert plain. Beltan reached a hand toward the standing stone. Travis began to do the same.

A voice cut through the torpor like a cool copper knife.

“You must not touch the stone.”

Melia. But she seemed so distant, so small.

“Move away from it, dears. Now.”

Travis stiffened, caught between the strength of the lady’s words and the inexorable pull of the stone. Then he gasped and lurched backward. The dim veil lifted from his eyes, and only as air rushed into his lungs did he realize he had stopped breathing. Beltan stumbled after him.

Falken glanced at Melia. “Are they all right?”

Melia touched Beltan’s brow, then Travis’s. Her fingertips were soft and cool as rainwater. “They are unharmed. But we must get away from the pylon at once. Its evil has tainted all of us.”

A half hour later they huddled inside a ring of tumbled boulders that was just circular enough to make Travis wonder if it had been, if not built, at least shaped by human hands. He sipped the fragrant liquid in the clay cup he held and sighed. Melia had brewed a tea of
alasai
, and as they drank it their eyes had grown clear and color had crept back into their faces. All except for Tira, who turned her nose up at the tea and ignored them as she scrambled atop one of the boulders to play with her doll.

“What was it, Falken?” Grace set down her cup and regarded the bard with brilliant green-gold eyes. “What was that stone back there?”

It was Travis who answered. But then, it was not the first time he had seen such a thing. “It’s a pylon. An artifact of the Pale King.”

“No, that’s not entirely right,” Melia said.

The bard nodded. “It was the Necromancers, the Pale King’s wizards, who created the pylons. It was during the War of the Stones. No one is really certain what the pylons were for, but I think they helped the Necromancers communicate somehow—with each other, and with other servants of the Pale King.”

Lirith cupped her hands around her tea. “Falken, were not all of the Necromancers slain in the War of the Stones?”

“So it is told.”

“And yet you seem to know so much of them.”

The bard reached up and fingered the silver brooch that clasped his cloak. “You could say I’ve had some … experience in the subject.”

Travis frowned. How could Falken have experience with something that had passed from the world an eon ago?

Durge spoke then. “There is yet one question you have to answer, Falken. Why is there a pylon here?”

“Because it was a Necromancer who built this place, before the War of the Stones began.”

All stared at the bard, but no one found words to reply.

Falken stood. “I should get back to the door. I still have to find a way to open it.”

“Not alone,” Melia said. “It is too close to the pylon.”

Travis scrambled to his feet. “I’ll go with him.

“And I,” Lirith said, rising.

Melia caught and held their gazes. “You must each watch the others for signs of the shadow cast by the pylon.”

They both nodded in answer. Falken turned to go. Travis followed several paces behind the bard, Lirith beside him.

“There is more they have not told us,” the witch whispered as they walked.

Travis couldn’t suppress a soft laugh. “I have a feeling there always is.”

They reached the door set into the cliff wall. Travis could feel the power of the pylon, like a shadow just on the edge of his vision, but now that he knew it was there it was easier to close his mind to its call.

Falken let out a breath. “All right, let’s start over. Maybe three heads will be able to figure out what all these lines and dots mean. Who wants to take a look at the inscription first?”

“Why don’t we all look at the same time?” Lirith said.

Travis shook his head. “The alcove’s not big enough for us all to step in and see the inscription.”

“Well, then let’s bring the inscription out to us,” Lirith said.

Falken frowned at the witch. “How do you mean?”

Instead of answering, Lirith moved to a nearby
bush. If pressed for a name, Travis supposed he would have had to call it
not-holly
. Lirith snapped off a handful of bare twigs, gathered several bunches of red berries, then returned to the others. She held out the sticks and berries.

“Lines and dots,” she said.

Travis and Falken stared at the witch, then both laughed in understanding.

They took turns stepping into the alcove, studying a few of the symbols, then returning to a large, flat stone on which they re-created the symbols using Lirith’s sticks and berries. Soon they had duplicated the entire inscription.

The three gathered around the stone, studying the symbols they had copied. In a way, the markings were familiar to Travis, and not just because they looked vaguely like runes. This was what written words always looked like to him—a chaotic jumble of lines and dots—before he concentrated and sorted them out. But no matter how hard he stared, these markings refused to organize themselves in any meaningful fashion.

Falken groaned and stepped back from the stone. “It’s no use. We’ll never understand the message.” He looked up. “And that’s not just the pylon talking.”

Lirith held a hand to her brow. “We have to keep trying. Perhaps we made a mistake in copying the inscription. I’ll go check again.”

Falken heaved his shoulders in a sigh. “I’ll help.”

The bard and the witch turned back toward the alcove. Travis gazed again at the stone. The sticks and berries seemed to dance, and he gave up trying to make them stop. If there was meaning in the symbols, it was beyond him. He let the dots and lines swim freely before his eyes.

Two of the sticks and one of the berries collided, forming a new shape. Travis sucked in a breath. It was
Urath
, the rune of opening.

He blinked, and the twigs and berries ceased their wandering. The rune
Urath
vanished.

No, that wasn’t true. It was still there, wasn’t it? He picked up the stick farthest to the right, then placed it on top of the stick and berry farthest to the left. Together, they formed the rune of opening.

Shaking, Travis moved the two sticks that were now the farthest to the right and moved them onto the two sticks next to
Urath
. A jolt passed through him.
Pel
. Door.

He worked swiftly now, moving sticks and berries from right to left, until he had formed seven recognizable runes on the flat stone. Before he even thought about what he was doing, Travis sounded out the runes.

“Urath pel sar bri, fale krond val.”

“What are you doing, Travis?”

Travis jerked his head up. Falken approached, frowning at the sticks. Travis opened his mouth to answer, but Lirith, still beside the alcove, spoke first.

“Look at the door,” she whispered.

Both Travis and Falken turned to follow her gaze. Deep in the alcove, the symbols glowed with a pale light of their own. A faint
snick
sounded on the air, like a lock turning, and a dark line appeared in the midst of the fragmented runes, running from the top of the archway to the bottom.

“What’s happening?” Travis said.

However, his question was answered for him as—with a whisper of dry, ancient air—the doorway swung open.

“By Olrig, they
were
runes.” Falken peered through the archway into the opening and ran a hand through his black-and-silver hair. “I just couldn’t see it.”

“We all have our off days, dear,” Melia said, her voice a trifle too smug to be genuinely sympathetic.

The bard shot a sour look in her direction.

Grace gazed past Falken, into the lightless space beyond the arch. It was a passageway. Dusty, faintly metallic air spilled from its mouth—air that Grace was certain had not been breathed in long centuries.

She looked at Travis. “How did you know you were supposed to rearrange the symbols into runes?”

He gave her a sheepish shrug. “I didn’t.”

Grace studied him.
Of course. It was his dyslexia. He didn’t mean to rearrange the symbols—it just happened in his mind when he got tired and couldn’t concentrate
.

Beltan shot Travis a wry smile. “Maybe it’s not so bad being a mirror reader after all.”

“Indeed,” Lirith said.

Aryn gestured to the symbols fashioned of sticks and berries. “So what do the runes say?”

Falken opened his mouth, but it was Travis who murmured the translation. “Open this door of dark stone, and seek the king of the valley of fire.”

All of them cast startled looks at Falken. It was Lirith who first managed to find words.

“Now that your magic door is open, Falken, who shall step through?”

“All of us.”

“Are you certain that’s wise, dear?” Melia said.

Falken shrugged. “Is there anyone who cares to stay behind?”

There was not.

“We’ll have to leave the horses,” Beltan said. “We’re not going to get them into that tunnel.”

“Will they be all right here?” Aryn asked the blond knight.

Durge stepped forward. “I am certain they will be fine, my lady.”

As one, seven pairs of eyes turned on the Embarran. Those had been awfully optimistic words coming from Durge.

The knight smoothed his mustaches. “That is … I mean to say … I am certain Blackalock and Sir Beltan’s charger will guard the other horses against the wolves, mountain lions, and other perils that are certain to come along in our absence.”

Grace let out an audible sigh. She turned her attention back to the doorway along with the others.

Melia traced her fingers over the symbols carved into the arch. “Why here, Falken? I believe Tome, of course—he has never been wrong to my knowledge. But why did the Stone come to this of all places?”

Falken rested his black-gloved hand on her shoulder. “That’s what we’re here to find out.”

She reached up and touched his hand. Falken looked at the others.

“There’s no need to bring anything besides a little food and water. If all goes well, we won’t be long.”

The bard’s conditional was not lost on Grace.
If …
All the same, she brought only a small water-skin and some dried fruit for herself and Tira to share. She wished she had some shoes for the girl—it had never mattered while they were riding—but it was too late now.

I’ll carry her if the passage gets too rough. She can’t weigh more than twenty-five kilos
.

However, as they stepped through the tunnel into the gloom beyond, Grace saw that the floor was as smooth as the cliff wall, hewn of black stone and
polished like glass. The passage slanted upward slightly, and within a minute the door was a bright, tiny window floating in the darkness behind them. Then the passage curved to the left, and the doorway was lost to sight. Ancient shadows closed in.

“Travis,” the bard said, his quiet words hissing off stone in all directions, “can you give us light?”

Grace sensed Travis hesitate, then he whispered a single word.
Lir
. As before, a silvery radiance sprang into being. However, now the light flickered and contracted under the weight of the darkness. Lines of strain crossed Travis’s face, and sweat beaded on his brow—then the light stabilized in a small sphere around him.

Lirith touched his arm. “What is wrong, Travis?”

“I don’t know. It feels almost like … like the shadows are trying to squeeze out the light.”

Falken nodded. “A different magic holds sway here, one of the south, not the north. It is a newer magic, but still strong.” He glanced at Melia. “You know, you could—”

The amber-eyed lady raised a hand. “No. I will use no power in this place, not unless there is terrible need. All I might do would be tainted here.”

Without further explanation, Melia continued on. Grace started forward, holding Tira’s hand, then winced as something pricked through her boots into the flesh of her ankles.

Don’t tell me you’ve already found one of Durge’s improbably poisonous snakes
.

Grace looked down at her feet. Two small, moon-gold eyes gazed up at her.

Grace sighed. “So it’s you. I should have known—Travis warned me about you.” She bent down and picked up the black ball of fluff. “Why aren’t you with Lady Melia?”

The kitten licked a paw with a pink tongue, obviously above answering to mere humans.

A tug on Grace’s sleeve. She looked down to her left. Tira pointed—the others were heading down the tunnel.

“All right,” Grace said to girl and kitten. “We’d better get going if we don’t want to be left behind.”

She bent down, then settled the kitten into Tira’s outstretched arms. The creature purred and snuggled against the girl’s shoulder. Together, Grace and Tira hurried after the rest of the party.

It was difficult to determine the passage of time as they walked. The tunnel plunged ever deeper into darkness, sometimes making a slight bend to the right or left, but always, Grace felt, heading to the west. In some places the passage became nearly level, while in others it grew so steep it was difficult to gain footing on the glassy floor. Grace began to think that Tira’s bare feet weren’t a liability at all, but rather an asset, for the girl pranced lightly up slopes on which Grace felt more like Wile E. Coyote trying to get up to speed—spinning her legs without going anywhere.

Travis’s light did not so much banish the dark as merely push it back a few feet, like a diving bell fashioned of too-thin glass, dropped into an ocean at night. Only Travis, Falken, and Melia were able to walk in the illuminated bubble. The others came behind, two by two in the narrow tunnel: Lirith and Aryn, Grace and Tira, Durge and Beltan bringing up the rear.

After a time, Grace felt herself drifting into a kind of trance. It seemed she was no longer walking, but floating through dark water, chasing but never able to reach the shining sphere ahead of her.